The girls had agreed to pack all their clothes in one trunk and carry a suitcase apiece to the Junior Week-End Party at Exmoor. Nance was official packer and stood knee-deep in finery while she considered whether it was better to begin with party capes or slippers. Molly was studying and Judy was stretched on the divan idly swinging one foot.

Otoyo poked her head in the door.

“May I ask advice of kind friends?”

Molly looked up and smiled. She had once heard a preacher say that humility was as necessary to a well-rounded character as a sense of humor and she could see now what he meant. Otoyo was an excellent illustration. She was filled with humble gratitude for little kindnesses, never boasted and never forgot her perfect manners.

“Indeed, you may, little one,” spoke up Judy. “Come right in and state your grievances.”

“Oh, I have no grievances. I have only happinesses,” said Otoyo. “But I am packing and I wish to ask advices regarding clothes.”

“Clothes for what?”

“For Exmoor,” replied Otoyo, blushing and casting down her eyes.

“Why, you dear little Jap, you didn’t tell us,” exclaimed Molly.

“I have obtained the knowledge of it myself only this morning. Mrs. McLean has so kindly offered to look after little Japanese girl.”

“And who is your escort?” they demanded in one chorus.

“Professor Green,” said Otoyo, trying not to show how intensely proud she felt of the honor. “He is what you call ‘a-lum-nus,’” she said, “and he invites me to go with him, and Mr. Andrew McLean, junior, is making out a card of dances for me. Is it not wonderful? And is it not of great good fortune that I have now learned to dance?” She began circling about the room. “Only I can do it much better alone. Poor little Japanese girl will be frightened to dance with American gentleman.”

The girls laughed again.

“You are an adorable little person,” exclaimed Molly, kissing her, “and young American gentleman will be only too glad to dance with little Japanese girl.”

Otoyo was now well provided with clothes, and there being still plenty of room in the trunk, they allowed her to pack two evening dresses and a diminutive black satin party wrap with their things.

Molly was half sorry that Professor Green was going. Except at classes, she had never seen him since that Sunday morning on Round Head. Once he had smiled at her like an old friend when they had met in the main hall, but she was careful not to return the smile and bowed coldly.

“Yes, I am disappointed,” she had thought. “I am glad Prexy found out about us that night, but he needn’t have been the one to tell. I hope I shall be too much engaged in having a good time at Exmoor to see him. I am glad Lawrence Upton is going to look after me, because he always does so much for one. It was nice of Professor Green to take Otoyo. He is kind, of course.”

However, that afternoon when the trolley started with its load of Wellington guests for Exmoor—there were several other parties—Molly found herself seated between Mrs. McLean and Professor Green. How it had happened she could not tell. She had intended to sit anywhere but next the Professor, whom she regarded as a false friend. But there she was and the Professor was saying:

“Miss Brown, you and I have been almost strangers of late. Are you working so hard that you have no time for old friends this winter?”

Molly paused for an instant to consider what she should reply to this question. Then she said a thing so bitter and foreign to her nature that the Professor gave a start of surprise and Molly felt that someone else must have said it.

“I have plenty of time for really loyal friends, Professor Green,” she said in a frigid tone of voice. She turned her back and began to talk to Mrs. McLean, and for the rest of the trip the Professor devoted himself to Otoyo.

Molly was in high spirits when she reached Exmoor. She was determined not to let her cruel speech ruin her good time. But through all the gayeties of that afternoon and evening, at the teas, the dinner and the Glee Club concert, the tang of its bitterness reached her. Across the aisle at the concert she could see Professor Green sitting by Otoyo, smiling gravely while the little Japanese girl entertained him, but never once did he look in Molly’s direction. A lump rose in her throat and she dropped her gaze to the program.

“It is never right to make mean speeches,” she decided, “no matter how much provocation one has.”

“Aren’t you having a good time?” asked Lawrence Upton at her side. “You look a little tired.”

“I’m having a lovely time,” answered Molly, “and I thought I was looking my best.”

“Oh, you couldn’t look any better. I think you are—well, the prettiest girl in the room. I meant there was a kind of sad look in your eyes.”

“Don’t try to cover it up with compliments,” answered Molly. “When a thing’s said, you can’t change it, you know. It’s like this:

“Please don’t be so severe, Miss Molly,” said Lawrence humbly.

“I wasn’t thinking of what you said, particularly,” said Molly. “I was thinking of any speech one might make and regret and never be able to recall.”

“You are sad,” said Lawrence. “I was certain of it. Will it make you any gladder to hear about to-morrow? You are engaged for every hour in the day. I had a great to-do keeping a little time for myself. Three fellows wanted to take you driving in the morning, but I reserved that privilege for yours truly. Dodo and I are going to drive you and Miss Judy over to Hillesdell after breakfast. Then there’s the Junior Lunch. That’s quite a big affair, you know. It’s like a reception. Prexy always comes to that and any of the alumni who happen to be down. A crowd of them come usually. Andy’s giving a tea in the Chapter rooms and there are some other teas, and then come the dinner and the ball.”

“If there’s anything left of us by then,” said Molly, laughing.

It was an intermission and everybody was visiting as they did at the Wellington Glee Club concerts. Molly, the center of a jolly crowd of young people, joined in the merriment and talk and all the time there was a taste of bitterness on her lips and in her ear a voice kept dinning over and over:

“I have plenty of time for really loyal friends, Professor Green.”

That night, when they had gone to bed in their rooms in the Chapter House, they were serenaded by a roving band of juniors. When at last the serenaders moved away and the house was still, Molly could not go to sleep.

Dozens of times she repeated her cruel speech. She analyzed and parsed it, as she used to parse sentences years before in her first lessons in grammar. She named the subject, the predicate, the object, and modifying words. She tried to define the meaning of the word loyal. What were its synonyms? Faithful was one, of course. When she closed her eyes, she could see her speech written in red across a black background like a flaming sign. Was the Professor hurt or angry or both? She recalled every kindness he had ever done for her and there were many. She remembered with a burning blush what pains he and his sister had taken to make her have a happy Christmas a year ago. He had informed President Walker on her, of course, but he was only doing his duty. And she had made that cruel speech!

“I have plenty of time for really loyal friends, Professor Green.”

Her mind traveled in a circle. She tossed and turned, trying one side until it ached and then trying the other; resting on her back for a moment and finding the position intolerable.

At last she fell asleep and woke up stiff and weary in the morning, devoutly wishing the day were well over.

She had hoped to see Professor Green in the morning, if only for a moment, but he had returned to Wellington, leaving the entertainment of Otoyo in charge of some of his brother’s friends.

Of what earthly pleasure is a beautiful corn-colored evening gown when one’s heart is like a lump of lead and one’s conscience heavy within?

All her numerous partners at the ball could not console Molly, nor could the knowledge that she was looking her best as she floated through the dances in her diaphanous dress.

“I know now how Judy felt after she was so unkind to me at the junior play,” she thought, “and, if heaven is kind to me, I hope never to say anything to hurt anyone again.”

In the meantime there were those who were enjoying themselves to the utmost limit of enjoyment.

Otoyo Sen, in a seventh heaven, was dancing with young Andy, who towered above her like a lighthouse over a cottage.

Judy in her black dress was sparkling with vivacity. Her fluffy light brown hair gleamed yellow and her skin was cream white, against the dark folds of her chiffon frock. Could this be the same Judy who, only a few weeks ago, was contemplating—heaven knows what?

Nance, with one eye on Andy, was also happy and light-hearted. How trim and charming she looked in her white silk dress!

Molly found herself laughing and talking a great deal, and all the time she was thinking:

“We’ll be back to-morrow at noon. On Monday the holidays begin. Oh, if I can only see him before he goes!”

A great many young men came down to the station to see them off next morning. There was a din of farewells. On all sides girlish voices were calling:

“Good-bye!”

“It was the jolliest dance!”

“I never had a better time in all my life!”

“Awfully nice of you to ask us.”

Molly had joined in the chorus with the others and had grasped many outstretched hands and smiled and waved her handkerchief and listened to Otoyo in one ear, crying:

“Oh, Mees Brown, I do like the American young gentleman veree much,” while Judy in the other was saying:

“Wasn’t it glorious fun? I never saw you look better. I have a dozen compliments for you.”

The car fairly crept back to Wellington, so it seemed to poor Molly. At last they arrived and a carry-all took them back to the Quadrangle.

Without waiting to explain, she left her suitcase in the hall and ran to the cloisters. Pausing at the door marked “E.A. Green,” she knocked urgently.

There was no answer. A door farther down the corridor was opened and the professor of French looked out.

“Professor Green has gone away,” he said. “He will not return until after the holidays.”